Читать книгу: «Welcome to Braggsville», страница 5

Welcome back, Little D.

Hi, Rheanne. These are my friends from—

Hi, Little D’s friends.

He rattled off their names, but she’d already returned her attention to her magazine. No handshaking and hugging here.

At the back of the store Lou had installed a new deli counter, behind which stood his oldest granddaughter and Rheanne’s older sister, Lee Anne, who waved politely from her folding chair, positioned so that she could watch The Voice on the television in the corner.

Welcome back, Little D.

Hi, Lee Anne, these are my friends—

Hi, Little D’s friends. What are all y’allses names?

His mom rushed through the introductions. They were in a hurry, she explained as she gave her order.

Three pounds of three kinds of meat? Sliced? Lee Anne groaned. You coulda called that in, Miss Janice.

I realize that, Lee Anne, that’s why it’s an emergency order, because I wasn’t able to plan ahead, and pick up my son and his wonderful friends, who flew clear across the country to see our little festival. I had a lot to do to prepare for this trip, and now that I have an emergency, I knew I had to come here, and not up the road to that big cold box.

Of course. Lee Anne’s voice softened at the mention of the big cold box, the mart that was to remain unmentioned, but apparently appreciation wasn’t ample motivation. Lee Anne had graduated only two years before Daron, but she already moved like her grandfather Lou himself, and five minutes surely passed while she shuffled to the deli case, turned over several slabs of meat before finding the right one, peeled the plastic back, adjusted the slicer, washed her hands, and, finally ready to begin—no, not yet, it seemed—brushed aside a few stray hairs with her bare hands, made a face of intense concentration, flipped the switch on the machine, and guided the meat across. Lee Anne took a deep breath. A single slice of ham fainted across the wax paper like a Southern belle in sight of a chaise lounge. She exhaled dramatically. One!

Louis and Candice snuck a glance at each other that said, No fucking way this can be serious.

Just joking. I like to do that for the tourists.

Daron’s relief was physical.

A young girl of no more than seven came in walking on her heels and stood beside Daron’s mother. He recognized her as Irene’s daughter Ingrid.

Hello, dear. Daron’s mother raised her voice to be heard over the slicer. How are you today?

Fine, ma’am.

Doing some shopping for your mommy?

For myself, ma’am.

Lee Anne stopped slicing. The whirring blade slowed and the sound of the motor faded. Do you need something from this here counter, Ingrid? I done told you this here AC ain’t free.

Yes, ma’am, Lee Anne. Two slices of bologna and two slices of cheese.

Lee Anne glared at her, holding the stare while picking up a microphone, unnecessarily as it turned out, and yelling, We need backup at the deli counter. Rheanne slammed her People down like last week’s TV Guide and stomped to the back of the store. Candice approached the deli counter with a handmade doll in her outstretched hands. How much is this?

Rheanne shook her head and picked up the microphone, We need a price check.

Those two were still fighting like it was high school. Daron walked off in frustration, leaving Charlie chatting with his mom. He hadn’t wanted to come in here anyway. They’d made a stop for gas as well, which really irked him. Why couldn’t his mom have done all this before picking them up? She knew how far away the airport was. But she didn’t plan and they had ended up in a gas station with Candice and Louis gasping and pulling out their phones to snap photos of little jigaboo dolls and bumper stickers with slogans like ARIZONA: DOING THE JOB THE FEDS WON’T DO … BLIND JUSTICE IS EQUAL / SOCIAL JUSTICE IS RACIST … GUNS DON’T KILL PEOPLE, DANGEROUS MINORITIES DO … I DON’T LIKE HIS WHITE HALF EITHER … IF YOU’RE ANY ’CAN, EXCEPT AMERI-CAN—GO HOME … IF I’D KNOWN IT WOULD BE LIKE THIS, I WOULD HAVE PICKED MY OWN COTTON. By tomorrow this time, the slogans would be all over Facebook and Instagram. Worse yet, Louis might method tweet, which was his form of method acting. He certainly had enough inspiration.

When Lou rearranged the store, he’d tucked away the bumper stickers in the back corner, but after the last stop, Candice knew what to look for. AMERICAN BY BIRTH, SOUTHERN BY THE GRACE OF GOD announced the one Louis and Candice were reading aloud, working over the words like kids sounding out the list of puzzling ingredients on the side panel of their favorite sugary cereal.

Rheanne was on the phone now. Was she staring at them? He couldn’t tell, but suspected it. She must have been because for just a moment her eyes met his, and they both quickly looked away.

Louis and Candice read the rest of the stickers, each of which bore the Confederate flag and a slogan: THESE COLORS DON’T RUN … HUNTING IS THE BEST ANGER MANAGEMENT … THE SOUTH SHALL RISE AGAIN … KEEP HONKING—I’M RELOADING. Lou’s selection, fortunately, was not as obnoxious as the gas station’s. Daron had never thought much about them, his attention from a young age drawn to the sign over the register: YOU WANT CREDIT, COME BACK TOMORROW.

What’s tomorrow? asked Candice when they were checking out.

The reenactment. Rheanne blinked once, slowly, as if in disbelief, as if the question were an affront.

You get credit for the reenactment?

That’s only if you come tomorrow.

Wednesdays?

On Wednesday, tomorrow will be Thursday.

Oh. That’s funny. She gave a frenzied, feverish laugh, so unrestrained that Daron worried she was mocking Rheanne, but Rheanne joined in, too. Candice picked up a pamphlet entitled History of Braggsville. How much is this? Rheanne shrugged and picked up the microphone, We need a price check.

Lou’s was a few blocks from the edge of town, and from there it was barely a ten-minute drive to Daron’s house. The rest of the way home, it seemed that everyone was on their front porch. If they didn’t have a porch, they were in the window. Daron called out their names and waved as they passed. There was Mary Jo, Bobby, Kevin, Dennis, Raymond, Lucille, Frankie, Coddles, Lyle, John, Andy, Miss Ursula, Jim, Lonnie, Postmaster Jones, William, Travis, Todd, Tony, Dennis M … They all waved back.

Will there be a quiz? You know, it’s hella creepy, all those waving bingo wings, Louis slapped his triceps.

We drive everywhere here. It’s too hot for old people to walk. Daron went back to listing names, hoping to distract them from The Charlies—a legion theyselves—guarding driveways, gracing lawns, standing sentinel on porches with wide-eyed accusation. Not to mention the Hobarts, who were shoe-footing it in the single lane ahead of them with I DON’T LIKE HIS WHITE HALF EITHER pasted dead center below their license plate.

Candice leaned over and whispered to Daron, Where do all the black people live?

In the front yards. Louis pointed randomly.

Charlie laughed, followed by Daron’s mom.

Daron slapped Louis’s hand. No, in the Gully.

The gutter!

No, the Gully, the Gully, repeated Daron, flushed from Candice’s whisper, her arm against his, her strawberry breath at his ear. Their neighborhood is called the Gully. It’s right behind my house, on the other side of the hill, on the other side of the Holler, then walk a little ways. My nana—grandma—nearly got lost back there and she was from the woods.

Can we walk there?

I don’t exactly know how to get there on foot.

Isn’t it behind your house?

Sort of. I know how to get there. It’s just you don’t walk it. After you cross the hill, the Gully is still behind the Holler, but no one actually walks through the Holler. To get to the Gully, you drive back to the highway and around.

She made her life-is-unfair face, angry and sad all at once, like a child who had paid her quarter but received no bubble gum ball from the globe, a look he hated because it made him feel protective but powerless and swelled a sudden urge to cup her breasts. He tried explaining that the Gully wasn’t worse off or hidden. They had it good for work because they were actually closer to the mill, and upwind. They had their own houses and their own store and their own mechanic. It was just that no one walked through the Holler. Nobody. You didn’t have to be Methuselah to know that.

Chapter Ten

His mom’s backyard rivaled Berkeley’s best. The entire plot was five acres, as were most along their road, but his father was one of the few who’d cordoned off a portion of his land, erecting a solid six-foot wood dog-ear fence behind the house to create a sizable yard, almost the dimensions of a basketball court, in which over the years his mother had planted a small herb garden, ivy to dress the gazebo, a flower bed along the house, and several rows of dwarf pear trees. She planned well. When all the planting was finally finished, bounded on each side by colorful flowers or edible fruit was a neatly cropped, lush lawn in the center of which the gazebo sat like a paperweight.

When they entered the backyard, his mom gesturing as though announcing dignitaries to the royal court, a cheer sounded across the crowd. Daron cringed when he heard Jungle Boogie playing. His family was dangerously drunk when they started playing soul, and it was only eight P.M. Almost thirty people danced, sang, chatted, smoked, or swapped stories in various corners of the yard, all waiting to ambush him with embarrassment. His fifty-seven-year-old aunt Boo would soon be dropping it like it was hot, his uncle Lance would soon be doing the funky chicken clogging routine, and his seven-year-old cousin Ashley would soon be doing her Beyoncé Single Ladies impersonation, complete with a body suit, stockings, and high heels.

Then there were his older female cousins—the stripper, the trucker, and the elementary school teacher—referred to as no-count because they’d never married. The stripper and teacher were twins, and rumor had it they occasionally played switcheroo. At most gatherings, one started a fire and the other a fight. But there was no telling who because they switched roles for each party.

Of course there was Uncle Roy, who resembled Don Knotts and chanted nigger like it would cure his pancreatic cancer. His wife, Aunt Chester, never knew where to put the needle down in the conversation and couldn’t meet people without making fun of their names, if she liked them. Daron couldn’t blame her. Her Christian name was Anna, but Uncle Roy always introduced her as his wife, Chester, and often added, nodding at her bosom, You’ll never guess how she got that nickname or why I married her. Quint, more a brother than a cousin, had the Confederate flag tattooed on his left forearm, in case you didn’t see the one on his right, Balance, his only explanation.

Daron led his friends around the yard, introducing them to everybody more for his own benefit than for theirs, wondering what he would do and whom he would talk to when the niceties were over. Since college started, these get-togethers felt more stressful. His young cousin’s dancing was evidence of the media’s deleterious influence on her definition of beauty and her self-image. (He had written a paper proudly entitled The Story of Oh: Hypersexualization and Young Girls, and e-mailed it to one cousin, who e-mailed it to another cousin, who e-mailed it to another, who posted it on Facebook with a request for help interpreting the, Journalism of my little cousin who I always knew was going to be a genius. Another cousin had it bound and shelved.) She would never look like Beyoncé; even most black women didn’t look like Beyoncé. Though when young he had admired their sarcasm and sharp wit, his older female cousins—the misanthrope, the pyromaniac, and the exhibitionist—all obviously hated their lives, lives that would never recover the hope of their youth, lives now defined by their status as old maids, though barely thirty. They were stuck here, and the finality of that sentence pained him. It was impossible to have a conversation with one of them and not feel like he was addressing a ghost. He should have warned his friends it would be BYOC—Bring Your Own Conversation.

Yet, every few encounters one of the Indians fell happy captive. Charlie was the first to go. Uncle Roy asked if he had folks ’round the way in the Gully. When Charlie shook his head, No, Roy offered to tell him about it. A few minutes later, the crazy cousins, avoiding Daron’s eyes, sheepishly asked Candice about medical marijuana, and the four of them huddled like old friends under the umbrella his mother had borrowed from Lou’s for the occasion.

And Quint waited at the end of the circuit the entire time, grinning, stroking his thin chin, sharp elbow propped, pinned to a stumpy forearm thick as a pig’s knee; he’d recently spent another thirty days on chopping down a tree to steal a bike. (He blew time like he had it to spare, like it grew on clocks instead of died there.) His favorite top, when he wore one, was any T-shirt with writing because, It’s like you can say something without saying anything. Today’s slogan: I MAKE IT LOOK EASY.

Quint hugged Daron so tightly pain passed immediately into nostalgia. Six years older, Quint was forever bigger and stronger, and always squeezing or thumping or noodling Daron, as he did now, slipping Daron into an arm-bar and a full nelson and then a headlock to give him a noogie. Their entangled limbs did not resemble those of wrestlers at work so much as modern dancers in choreographed chaos. Daron had long since stopped resisting and accepted that Quint had to thump his chest at least once in front of all new folks. There were two types of people, as Daron learned in Anthro 101: tree climbers and tree pissers. His older, stronger, and quicker cousin Quint, unfortunately, was of the latter variety. (And no Twitter rants would suffice; Q was analog as a motherfucker.) On the other hand, at least he was a cousin. Threat of Quint was enough to limit the high school bullying to name-calling (Donut Black Hole beat big black eye). No one wanted Quint on their back, the very position in which Daron now found himself.

Louis raised his hands in surrender. I’d help, but I’d only end up in the same position as you.

Don’t worry ’bout him none. Quint tightened his grip. Ya’tta know by now. Oysters up under pressure, but he’ll come back later and deliver a pearl. Quint plucked him on the head one last time before releasing him, Won’t ya?

Daron stretched his neck, rotated his head in one direction, then the other. Quint, this is Louis, my roommate. Louis, Quint, first cousin.

Loose Chang. Louis extended his hand. Friends call me Loose.

He never told me you was so cute. Y’all live together?

Not by choice, not by choice. After a moment of silence, Louis added, For one thing he’s messy.

Just fuckin’ with ya. You eat? He pointed to the folding table against the house where the awning would protect the food from the sun. That there is the best potato salad, cold cut dip, and cobbler you’re going to find.

Cold cut dip, repeated Louis haltingly.

Quint wrapped a massive arm around Louis’s neck and steered him away, winking over his shoulder at Daron, who wondered if he was supposed to know what that meant.

Smoke wafted over to him and his mouth watered, even though he hadn’t eaten meat for five years. Berkeley and its gas grills, expensive gas grills, expensive shiny stainless steel gas grills, with casters and more attachments than Inspector Gadget and price tags that made him gag, yielded a result no better than poking a coat hanger through a hot dog and holding it over the range, as he did when a kid. Fire isn’t flavor, but the Big Green Egg, that ingenious ceramic capsule of goodness, that Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup of cookout equipment, both grill and smoker—God bless!—was guaranteed to give even the veggie burgers and tofu dogs a cheek-smacking hickory finish, except there weren’t any veggie burgers in the coolers, nor were any in the backyard refrigerator.

He found his mother in the kitchen, which betrayed no evidence she was hosting a party for more than thirty two-fisted, high-livered Davenports, McCormicks, and their miscellaneous miscellanies. It was a spotless white room, surgically so, the only color coming from the piglets. Pink piglets on dish towels, placemats, plaques: all from Daron and his father, her little piglets. She was leaning over the sink, scraping a nonstick baking sheet with a red rubber spatula. When he asked her about the vegetarian items, she stood, groaned and slapped the sink. I knew I forgot something.

It was typical that she was so busy cleaning she’d forgotten the most important items. She couldn’t forget meat because there was always a year’s supply in the freezer. Shit, Mom, that was the most important thing, Daron’s voice went high.

Is something the matter?

Everything’s the matter. You know they have dietary restrictions. Candice and Charlie don’t eat red meat. If you weren’t being all extra nice and going out of your way like, you know, to be like, all, you know …

Saccharine?

Yeah, saccharine.

I was going to wait until later, but since you’re bringing this up now. I assume you mean artificial. I am not artificial, and I’m right appalled and embarrassed that you would say that about me, and suggest it in front of your friends.

I’m embarrassed that you flirted with Charlie.

She slapped him on the cheek with the spatula. You know better. Don’t get highfalutin in front of folk. You told me you were bringing home friends, and gave me specific instructions that made me think … Never mind. One day when I’m not here, you’ll appreciate me.

Daron walked out, stomping down the hallway to the foyer, where he stopped short of slamming the front door because his father was across the yard, leaving the garage and walking toward the backyard. Daron waited in the doorway until he disappeared, not wanting his father to tear into him about the temporary tattoo on his cheek, as he would call it, before lecturing him on respecting his mother.

Ruts ran from the small squares of dead lawn on either side of the driveway entrance to the detached garage. His father had remembered to put away The Charlies. They were passed down from his grandfather, Old Hitch, who counted them creepier than bankers, he said, with those watermelon-red lips, but who kept them because his father had given them to him. Daron’s own father had the same complaint, and had promised to put them up when Old Hitch passed, but after the funeral, when the first thing Daron thought to do was move them, because from his bedroom window he could see them leering at night, wild-eyed, his father took to Daron’s neck with a shuddering reminder that, This is my house. I make the rules about who goes where, when, why, and how.

Laughter erupted from the backyard while Daron was toeing one of the squares of dead grass where The Charlies had stood, and he looked up to see his mother kicking the other. He had not heard her come out.

Those were heavy. She flexed her arms.

That explained the ruts. Daron muttered his thanks.

Does our deal still stand, D’aron?

Yes’m.

Don’t Yes’m me. Does our deal still stand?

Yeah, Mom, it does.

Okay. She pinched his cheek and it burned even more than the slap. He flinched. Trying to disfigure me?

They laughed. She kissed him.

You don’t really think I forgot about your girlfriend, did you?

She’s not exactly my girlfriend, and she does eat meat, just not beef.

Oh. Well. Anyway, what I was going to say was I forgot to take those veggie thingamabobs out of the freezer. And who knows, after she gets to see you in your home environment that might change. Hmmm?

Daron tore the blade of grass he was holding.

His mother chucked his chin. I love you, hon.

Me too.

She went, as she always did, Thank you, honey. You know that’s my favorite band.

WHEN HE RETURNED TO THE BACKYARD, Quint and Louis were sitting on the red beer cooler, thumb wrestling, Candice and his stripper cousin—at least he thought it was her—were in the gazebo in deep conversation, and Charlie was talking to Daron’s father. The Davenports were big men and women. Two generations in the mill. Before that, three generations of farming, his father liked to say, Yeoman. Yo-man! His uncles would kite their arms like they were steering a bullwhip and declare, We’re the original Georgia Crackers. But next to Charlie, his father looked puny. He never thought of Charlie as large until he saw him next to other people, or recognized the look of closeted alarm some people wore as they tried to avoid being next to him. In The City, rarely did anyone sit beside him on the subway, even during rush hour. At night, women clutched purses, crossed streets; guys steered wide. Charlie would occasionally whistle Vivaldi to reassure bystanders because, No one expects to be mugged by a dude who knows classical music. More than once he claimed he enjoyed the extra space. Daron never believed that. Today, no one behaved like that. But then again, they knew if anyone was going to gladly handle their possessions, it would be Quint. His father waved him over.

D’aron, is there something you want to say?

Daron stuttered, giving Charlie a quizzical look.

Tell me again what D’aron told you about us, Charlie.

Charlie looked confused.

His father laughed. I’m just teasing you. I wouldn’t want to know what you said, especially if you didn’t say anything. I thought my mom was old-fashioned for scaring us off the radio, D’aron thinks we’re old-fashioned, and your kids—he rested a hand on Charlie’s shoulder—will think you’re old-fashioned.

Just a cycle, sir.

That’s right, sir.

They went back to talking about the playoffs, and Daron quickly excused himself. The smoke rising from the Green Egg swayed lazy in the wind, the bright coolers were lined up beside the house like Legos. Candice was now moving through the crowd, snapping pictures of everybody. Daron would have to ask her about that later. He didn’t want his family to be featured in the final project, the object of academic scrutiny, their every cough subject to diagnosis by his professor and classmates. But he couldn’t say, No, no he couldn’t, not while she was hugging up next to his uncle and aunt, teetering, extending her arm before her to capture what she called her Paparazzi shot. Last year she’d cut her hair short a few days after they first met. He remembered because the week after the dot party, she waved him over to her bench on Lower Sproul Plaza and he felt a momentary thrill at being hailed by an unknown female. With the cropped hair, she looked tomboyish, which he liked. In profile tonight, with her dreadlocks pulled back, he saw that again, the slight nose, the prominent forehead, and the smile, always a smile like she knew you. Over the sound of the breakers at César Chávez Park, she’d once admitted that her family wasn’t close; that her father expressed a greater affinity for moths and fruit liqueurs and her mother a keen interest in civil rights. She dubbed them emotionally abusive. Taking it to mean that she wasn’t as spoiled as she would have preferred, Daron had laughed so hard he hadn’t even seen her walk off, vanish into the grassy hill, footsteps light as a squirrel. But as she shared more about her parents, he wasn’t so sure, and now prided himself on the fact that in his family, no one had ever been interested in anything other than someone else’s business. Candice remained between Roy and Chester for several minutes, showing them photos, or who knew what else, on her phone. With Aunt Chester gasping in amazement and Uncle Roy squinting with disbelief and Candice grinning proudly, they looked like a family. Daron took a picture. He had anticipated protecting his friends, running interference, but everything was going smoothly. Even Quint and Louis were still getting along. They stood at the table, deep in conversation, eating directly off the serving dishes, Louis gnawing a rib and Quint a piece of chicken, both ignoring Daron when he walked up.

Louis’s fingers and face oozed, gooey as those of a zombie at a fresh coffin trough. He sucked the knuckle of one hand so hard it looked like he might take the skin off. This is the shit! Someone put their foot in the sauce.

Oh. Is that a—Chinese—saying, too? asked Quint.

Simple math. Everything Chinese saying, if you add accent and subtract words. You put foot in sauce!

Quint guffawed, spraying flecks of chicken across the table. Daron made a mental note of the dishes seasoned thusly.

You oughta be a comedian. Chinese people are funny and all, but you got some jokes.

Louis beamed like he’d found a buttered Olsen twin in his bed. Quint kept talking, all the while pouring a shot from a bottle of Jack, which he handed to Louis while taking an impressive draw himself, enough to bob his apple a few times. Louis continued bobbleheading. About ten minutes later Quint called for everyone’s attention.

Hey, hey! he yelled, tapping a fork against a beer bottle. Before they all could hush up, Quint escalated to bottle-on-bottle action, head-butting two fallen soldiers, which he did until one broke, at which point everyone fell silent and looked at Janice, who stood in the kitchen doorway, one hand holding open the screen door, the red spatula at her side.

What the heck are you doing, Quintillion Lee Jackson?

I’m gettin’ y’allses attention. The stony grit in his voice ground down a measure, he continued, I see you’re armed, so I sure ain’t aiming to get on your short side, Aunty J. They all laughed. No, ma’am, not when you standing there looking knotted like Sheriff when he come ’round to see me the odd Friday. Used to be he came only after something went wrong. Now he rolls by every couple weeks, asks me if I got anything to confess. I always say, No. Quint winked. But y’all knows I always do. More laughter. I’m just the opener. Just the opener, not the beer, so sit back. We’re fixing to have a show. It’s the first performance in the South of the famous California comic Lenny Bruce Lee! Clap, y’all! Let’s hear it. Make him welcome, dammit.

Quint set a white plastic chair in front of the food table. Louis sat down and Quint grabbed his arm. After a moment of drunken pantomime, Louis understood and stood on the chair, at which point Daron’s family applauded as if a trick had been performed.

Louis cleared his throat and appeared to be reciting something to himself. Okay, let’s get started.

Hello, Braggsville! You don’t know me. I’m Chinese, but I had a typical American upbringing. I was also beaten by the Vietnamese. At that, a few people shared sympathetic chuckles. Only Charlie and Candice laughed heartily. Daron was disappointed. Louis was Malaysian, and claimed to be Chinese only when it was the easiest explanation. As he put it, It’s like saying you live in Unit 2 at Berkeley. No one knows that, so you go, San Fran, and people go, Oh.

I have the same relationship problems. Sometimes my girlfriend is like, Why don’t we go dancing? I’m thinking this is like if I opened the fridge and the steaks were like, Why don’t we go hunting? They liked that one. Louis stood a little straighter. The chair wobbled. Did he glance at Candice when he mentioned girlfriend? Daron hoped not.

See, this points to the differences between the sexes. I asked her, Seriously, do you think men really like to dance? If we could pay admission, give a chick the same amount of cash it would take to buy ten drinks, and take her home, we would. But that would be a brothel, or a sorority house.

When the crowd responded less than enthusiastically, Louis explained, See, we have this thing in some colleges known as sorostitution. It means rich girls … never mind. So then, my girl is like, But dancing is how you tell who’s good in bed. Maybe so, I told her, but that’s another difference between the sexes. You think we care about that.

She was like, All men care about is sex.

I was like, Yeah, that’s true, but not whether you’re good at it.

They liked that one. Uncle Roy pointed to Aunt Chester, who smacked his hand away.

Okay. My friend Charlie is here. Let’s hear it for Charlie. Chinese people and black people have a lot in common. Charlie clapped politely.

The Wu-Tang Clan. Quint spit out his drink laughing.

Tiger Woods? The black part was cheating, and the Chinese part was driving when he hit the tree. Charlie shook his head regretfully.

We each give our children funny names. There was silence, until he added, That white people can’t pronounce. It’s a conspiracy.

White people can’t cook our food, but they love to eat it. Though someone here makes good-ass ribs. He hiccuped. Excuse me. Good ribs. That was my black joke. I gotta represent. He gave Charlie a thumbs-up.

Oh yeah. Chinese people got some things in common with Southerners, too. You ready for this, Braggsville? I was at this store—he pointed over his shoulder, Lou’s Bait and Cash and Copy.

A few people in the crowd pointed in the other direction.

It’s in the other direction!

It’s called Lou Davis’s Cash-n-Carry Bait Shop and Copy Center!

Yeah! the stripper yelled.

The crowd all gestured toward town until Louis, too, was pointing in the right direction.

Yeah, so Chinese people are big into directions, too. He paused, collecting himself. But, I was at this store, Lou Davis’s, and it was like a Chinese store, you had everything: meat, bumper stickers, everything. In Chinatown, it’s like that. You can buy fruit and bread and get your teeth pulled in the back. Anyway, at Lou Davis’s I saw some strange stuff, like headcheese and all, and thought, hmmm, headcheese. Maybe these people are weird. Then I had an image of my grandma eating, guess what, chicken feet!